


Lion's Share

by ryuutora



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, I am the Keith Whump Queen, Keith (Voltron) Whump, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Poison, Psychic Bond, Soul Bond, Temporary Character Death, can't stop won't stop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 05:18:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18613939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuutora/pseuds/ryuutora
Summary: It’s only halfway to the kind of unshakable love that Lance is keeping him afloat with, but it’s just as ardent and hopeful nonetheless.





	Lion's Share

**Author's Note:**

> i churned this shit out in like 12 hours because im struggling with the next chapter of tffmo/everything is alright. i needed ... inspiration. so enjoy this masterpiece that has not been proofread.

* * *

 

    It might be the thick, foreign foliage of the planet that impedes Keith's ability to defend himself. It might be the odd, heavy wind that prevents him from noticing a third Galra soldier approach at his flank.

    But he definitely notices the blow to his arm, his luxite blade skittering away across the ground as it deactivates.

    Keith has good enough reflexes that this isn't an immediate issue. It isn't an issue that Lance is currently in possession of the red bayard, and he's given Shiro the black bayard for the time being as an extra defensive measure until they find time to repair the minor damages to his prosthetic arm from a small incident (Pidge-related) yesterday.

    So what if it isn't a matter of snapping his fingers and getting his weapon back?

    The soldier that knocked his dagger from his grasp howls in pain when a sharp fist connects with his nose. Keith reels back and slams his elbow into the throat of the soldier he hears approaching from behind.

    Then he dives for his dagger, where it's landed somewhere under a plant with massive, waxy leaves and large white flowers.

    He gets his Marmora blade, but he also gets a stinging sensation all along his right forearm, and it takes a few seconds to process the fact that the stigma of the flower had contained some kind of projectile needles. There are a couple in his helmet and shoulder, too, but going under the plant seems to have saved him from the bulk of them.

    The three soldiers who were attempting to attack him while he was vulnerable aren't so lucky. They're ready collapsing to the ground when Keith whips around to intercept them, covered nearly head to toe in little yellow-brown needles, sticking out from their faces and armour and ears.

    It takes him a second to register the vacant eyes, the fixed pupils, the shuddering final breath that seems to leave all of them simultaneously. It takes another second to register the fact that they're dead.

    Then the terrible ache in his arm starts to demand his attention. It throbs, in every place that the needles have punctured through his suit and armour. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply a few times, in through his nose, out through his mouth, but the pain just grows steadily worse and even begins to crawl up his arm.

    When he opens his eyes again, it's to complete darkness.

    He panics. He tries blinking again and again, tries squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them. He reaches out to feel what's in front of him and thinks that maybe, _maybe_ it's grass, or maybe it's a hallucination.

    _Why can't he see_?

    “Shiro,” he gasps, because that's the only thing he can think to do. It comes out raw with terror and it would be embarrassing under any other circumstances, but he's _afraid_.

    He's afraid, and he needs someone here for him.

    Instead of a response from this planet's nearest neighbour, where the Atlas is anchored, he gets a connection to the other two people who are here with him.

    “Keith? Are you okay? Did you make it to the lab?”

    Pidge sounds like she's underwater, for some reason. Keith tries to figure out a way to answer her that won't require too much talking, because he's in so much pain and so afraid that it's making him breathless.

    “No,” he hisses, but he doesn't elaborate on the fact that he was intercepted halfway there.

    “Do you need help?” Lance's voice is also strangely distorted, perhaps more so than Pidge’s.

    Keith doesn't realize his own voice is susceptible to the same distortion until he tries to speak again. “I … I can't see,” he whispers. “I don't know where I am.”

    “Pidge, get his coordinates,” Lance demands. It's like his voice is fading away. Like Keith’s vision went and now his hearing is going with it.

    It feels like hours pass as he waits in near-silence for something to happen, the panic in his chest steadily rising until it reaches the point of overflowing. He can't see, can barely hear -- is completely open and vulnerable to attack.

    This is like his worst nightmare. Tentatively, he places his left hand -- the one without needles in it -- flat to the ground to see if maybe he can feel what's happening around him through vibrations in the soil.

    His hands are shaking so badly that he wouldn't be able to tell anyway.  

    He's trying to remember how to breathe when something touches his hand. Acting on instinct, he lashes out, landing a quick blow to whatever is in front of him.

    He can't hear the noise it makes because he can't hear _anything at all_. Not his own frantic breathing or his heart pounding or whatever the hell is here with him.

    Still, he has to brace himself for retaliation, because even if he is blind and deaf, he needs to protect himself.

   It touches his hand again, and he starts to jerk back before he realizes that whatever it is, it's barely making contact. Fingers curl softly around his wrist.

    His glove is being tugged off, slowly, like he's made of porcelain. He can't see what's happening, can't hear what's happening, and he's so afraid he's shaking. The best he can do is assume he isn't in danger, because trying to fight won't do him any good.

    Then warm skin is sliding over his own, across his palm, and slender fingers are entwined with his, and he practically chokes on a sob as he attempts to rein in his emotions.

    “Lance?” he gasps, and it's so deeply unsettling not being able to hear himself speak that he jerks back.

    The grip on his hand tightens.

    His helmet is shifting, lifted up, and the visor recedes so that Lance can remove it altogether. He's being pulled in closer, closer, until his head is on Lance's shoulder. He realizes Lance has removed his own chestplate, and that's probably dangerous; probably stupid. He realizes he's hyperventilating.

    Realizes Lance is cradling him in his arms, holding him with his ear to his chest so that Keith can feel his heartbeat. Or maybe so he can feel the vibrations in his chest as he speaks. He must have noticed that Keith can neither see nor hear him, and is trying to keep him calm.

    Keith focuses on the heartbeat, even though it's nearly as frantic as his own.

    “ _Lance_ ,” he says again, because he can't quite figure out how to convey exactly what he's feeling, but also because he's struggling to articulate anything when he can't tell what it sounds like.

    Something warm presses against his forehead.

 

*

 

    Lance has never seen Keith look like this before. His fear is palpable but tenuously contained, like he's a split second away from screaming and crying but is fighting to keep it together. His eyes, covered in some sort of translucent film, are wild, his face ashen as he takes short, shallow breaths.

    His gaze is haunted.

    Lance clings to him and desperately searches or something he can do to help.

    They came here in Green, and he has to figure out how to get them both back to her if they're going to help Keith.

    Whatever is embedded in the Galra soldiers’ skin is also in Keith’s armour. Lance has to assume the little spikes are coated in some kind of poison, since the Galra are very much dead and Keith seems to be losing his senses -- literally. Keith shudders violently in his arms and he hushes him, rocking them back and forth.

    “It’s okay,” he reassures, even though Keith definitely can’t hear him. It frightens him to imagine Keith as being _vulnerable,_ but that’s overwhelmed by the need to keep him safe from harm while he’s out of commission like this.

    And if Lance is right about the poison, he _must_ get Keith to the Atlas for medical treatment as soon as humanly possible.

    “We have to get to Green,” Lance says aloud. “We have to…” He lifts Keith’s right arm and examines the little needles protruding from his armour, the way his fingers twitch and shake as he tries to contain his panic. “Pidge, _please_ , Keith needs help.”

    “I know. I’m moving as fast as I can! I can see your B.L.I.P. signatures; just try to get closer so I can get to you faster!”

    He’s just summoning the willpower to stand and guide Keith up with him when Keith makes an anguished noise and starts scrabbling at his chest.

    “Lance,” he says, almost pleading, head rearing back as his unseeing eyes search the space around him. “Lance, I can’t--”

    Lance should be surprised to see tears roll down Keith’s cheeks, but he’s so afraid and so concerned that this just frightens him more. The fingers clawing at his undersuit start to falter.

    “I can’t _feel_ …” Keith tries, clearly struggling to speak when he isn’t getting auditory feedback from his own voice.

    “Okay,” Lance says, despite having no clue what’s happening. “Okay, we’ll get you out of here.” He wishes Keith could just _hear him_. That would make everything so much _simpler._

    But Keith _can’t,_ so Lance reaches out to place a hand on either side of his head, steadying him. For a split second, surprise and relief wash across Keith’s features as he presses his cheek further into the palm of Lance’s hand. Then he jerks like he’s falling over and attempts to right himself. “No,” he whispers. His face crumples. “What’s _happening_?”

    Lance doesn’t have the answers for him. He tries to take Keith’s hands and haul him to his feet, because there’s no way he’s strong enough to carry him, but it’s as though Keith doesn’t even notice Lance is touching him, let alone trying to make him stand.

    Keith’s lips move.

    No sound comes out.

    He’s looking increasingly frantic with every passing second and Lance can’t figure out what to _do._

    They can’t get anywhere if Keith can’t cooperate with being moved. So he just pulls Keith into his lap again and starts rocking back and forth. Keith, for his part, doesn’t seem to be aware of being moved at all, but his eyes are still moving under the milky white spots clouding them like he’s trying to find a way out.

    “I’m here,” Lance whispers, cradling Keith’s head where it rests over his heart. He isn’t sure that Keith can hear _or_ feel his heartbeat at this point, but he _needs_ to comfort him somehow.

    The planet quakes beneath them and in a flash something closes around them. It takes him a moment to realize it’s the Red Lion, as they tumble backwards into the cockpit and Keith rolls out of his arms, flopping over on his side somewhere near the pilot’s seat. Red’s energy rumbles around them as she kicks off the planet, increasing in intensity as she breaks atmosphere.

    Lance stumbles over to where Keith is sprawled out on the floor, breath coming in shallow, rapid gasps. He doesn’t give any indication of awareness when Lance rolls him over to cradle his head in his lap, threading his fingers through his hair, but his face is distorted in a monument to anguish and Lance wishes Keith could feel him trying to smooth the lines away.

    There’s a mounting sense of fear inside of him, apprehension at some kind of unknown and it’s all blanketed in desperation, and at first he thinks that’s all coming from him before the foreign feeling of it takes hold. It’s Red, projecting those feelings to him, and all it takes to make him recognize the _real_ source is a single, distorted word flickering through the bond.

    ‘ _Lance._ ’

    It’s like trying to read or hear while submerged in water, and nothing that comes through is entirely formed -- part-sound, part-image, part-word, part-thought.

    The emotion is clear, at least.

    Lance knows that if he was in Keith’s shoes, he’d be just as scared and confused, if not more so, but that doesn’t make this any easier for him to handle. It _hurts_ to experience that kind of outpouring of emotion from Keith, because his empathy is going into overdrive and because Keith is a friend, a teammate, someone he cares deeply for, and to see the people he loves suffer (to experience their suffering alongside them) is tantamount to torture.

    Lance’s name flickers through their bond again, loud and clear, and then _everything_ comes through more clear than before.

    ‘ _Can’t feel can’t see can’t hear can’t_ smell _what the fuck can’t move am I moving Lance I can’t_ feel _Lance help_ Lance--’

    “I’m right here!” Lance cries even though Keith won’t hear it. His fingers slide down Keith’s cheeks and rest along his jawline, and he wishes to god that Keith could just know he’s still here for him.

    There’s a lull in the tide of panic, then: ‘ _Lance?’_

    “I’m right here, I promise,” he reassures, like Keith will even know he’s attempting to communicate with him.

    The bond between them and Red is flooded by a calm that is frankly shocking in the wake of all the fear Lance has been bombarded with in the last few seconds. ‘ _You’re here?_ ’

    Lance stares Keith down for several long seconds, trying to make sense of the thoughts flowing through to him, then his whole body jolts and he nearly loses the grip he has around Keith’s cheeks. “What the fuck, can you hear me?!”

    ‘ _Think I hear your thoughts, maybe?_ ’ Keith responds, uncertainty floating around them. ‘ _Think you’re hearing mine._ ’

    Oh, well, fuck, that’s _really_ not opportune -- or, well, it’s great because now Keith doesn’t think Lance abandoned him to die alone in the forest, but there are some _things_ he’s thought about Keith that he would definitely rather keep from the whole universe and _especially_ from Keith himself.

    ‘ _What’s happening?_ ’ Keith interrupts his rapidly derailing thoughts to ask, a twinge of that familiar fear returning.

    “We’re in Red, going back to the Atlas. You’ll be okay,” he says, trying his damnedest to convey that message through a series of mental images as well as words to make this all easier on Keith.

    And that’s when it finally occurs to him that, holy shit, his Lion has created some kind of neural connection between them like it’s no big deal, and did anyone else know the Lions could do that?

    How the heck is she doing that?

    He’s literally reading Keith’s mind right now, and while their time in space has numbed them to the effects of experiencing groundbreaking and incredible things, he’ll admit he’s somewhat floored, here.

    He doesn’t have much time to dwell on that, though, because he feels dread like a spear to the chest and it builds, builds; swells up like it’s going to burst and take his heart and lungs with it.

     _‘Can’t breathe.’_

“I-- what? Wait, Keith, what…?”

    Whatever bond is holding them together is nearly severed. Lance feels it slip away from him and then snap back into place so forcefully that the _intensity_ of Keith’s terror nearly knocks him on his ass.

    None of his thoughts are making sense, to the point that it’s giving Lance a headache as he fights to get some kind of reassurances through. Tries to remind Keith to _just hold on,_ please keep _trying_ to breathe, the Atlas is _so close._

    The pressure in his chest is bordering on agony, and he really can’t help the tears that spill down his cheeks as Red barrels closer to the planet the Atlas is waiting on -- _so close._

    “We’re almost there, buddy, it’s okay, I _promise,_ we’re almost there, you’re going to be okay,” he chokes out around the burn of impending death in his lungs, the pain of love and fear clogging his throat.

    He tries to give _that_ to Keith -- the _love,_ the hope, the future he knows is there for them if he _just keeps breathing._

    The frenetic battle Keith has been fighting on the other side of their bond abates and for a moment, Lance thinks it’s worked. The storm calms, but instead of relief, he feels a dark pressure creeping in around him and doesn’t quite understand what it is until he feels Keith’s lungs stop struggling for air beneath his own two hands.

    Red makes a sound like nothing he’s ever heard before. The heartbreak behind it tears right through him and he wails, shaking his head as his fingers curl into Keith’s sweat-matted hair, like he’ll be able to hold in place whatever part of him is left if he just clings tight enough. “Keith, I--” his body shudders around a sob. “No, _please, no,_ you’re okay; please don’t. You’re okay. It’s okay. _Please...”_

    That’s how Shiro finds him: wrapped around Keith and sobbing into his hair, shattered by grief as he rocks back and forth and begs him to just be alive again.

 

*

 

    Lance clutches the doorframe to keep himself in place as Coran finishes up whatever he’s doing to Keith. Some kind of physical, he’d said, since they’d essentially brought him back from the dead.

    It’s standard procedure after using the cryopods in a situation that dire. He’s been shining a light into Keith’s eyes for what feels like hours, while Lance waits nearby with baited breath.

    Keith insists, for the hundredth time in the last hour, that he feels _fine,_ but he still sounds groggy and confused, and that concerns Lance even though Coran told him that’s just a side effect of the healing process.

    “Well, everything seems in order. You just need a good nap, maybe some tea.” Coran pats his knee and stands to start cleaning up after himself, which is about the time Lance finally catches his eye. Coran grins. “Yes, number three, you can come in, now.”

    He pries his fingers off the door jamb and rushes forward, because he hasn’t been allowed near Keith since the cryopod opened and Coran carted him off to the med bay to make sure he was okay. He’s starting to become a little bit desperate to be close to him, hold him and make sure he isn’t actually dead.

    So he collapses onto Keith with little regard for anything but just _hugging him,_ god damn it -- he’d thought, just a few days ago, that he’d never hug this idiot again. Keith lets out a pained grunt when Lance tries to crush him but Lance doesn’t ease up, just squeezes him tighter.

    “Lance, what’re you--?”

    “You died,” he breathes, ignoring the painful twinge the words come with. “You died in my arms.That was so… I was _so…”_ He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, but he lets the tears that overflow from his eyes do the explaining for him.

    Keith’s arms wrap around his shoulders. Somewhere behind him, Lance is aware of Coran clearing his throat, and the door to the med bay sliding shut, leaving them in total silence apart from the shuddering breathing he’s trying to control.

    Blunt fingernails dig into his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Keith says thickly. “I shouldn’t have let--”

    Keith freezes, sucks in a breath, in the same moment Lance feels guilt trickle through his ribs. Guilt that isn’t his own.

     _Fear that wasn’t his own._

    He leans back just enough that Keith catches sight of the tear-tracks on his cheeks, and the guilt swells to something unbearable as his face crumples.

    “I’m sorry,” he says again, reaching out as if to wipe the tears, but thinking better of it.

    And here Lance was beginning to think he’d imagined the connection Red had created between them.

    “You’re okay?” he asks -- demands -- because that’s what matters right now, not guilt or blame or _remembering._

    “I’m okay,” Keith assures, and Lance drags him back into a crushing embrace. He tries not to let his desperation reach Keith. He isn’t positive he’s successful.

 

    He can only share Keith’s mind-space when they’re in physical contact with each other, or sitting in Red’s cockpit. She hasn’t bothered to answer any questions about what she did to them, stubborn as always.

    They haven’t asked Coran or Allura, because they’re not sure they want to tell anyone else quite yet.

    Lance is worried that if they know, they’ll find a way to undo it. He doesn’t know if that concern comes from himself or Keith, at this point.

    All it takes to cheer him up when he’s doubting himself is a hand on his shoulder.

    From the rest of Team Voltron’s perspective, Keith seems to just miraculously calm down whenever Lance is close to him.

    When Lance is injured in battle, he touches Keith’s cheek and feels the foreboding quiet into a sense of security, before Allura is intervening and their grip on each other is broken alongside their connection.

    So, when he wakes up in the middle of the night to his heart doing wild rabbit-kicks in his chest and a fear so visceral it’s settled into his bones, he must be imagining that it’s from Keith, because Keith is nowhere near him.

    Keith is in his own room, a couple doors down.

    Keith is … having a nightmare. It grips him like fire and sets his body in motion, tumbling out of bed, down the hall, slamming his hand on the control panel by Keith’s door.

    He hesitates to touch him, as he watches him fidget under the sweat-soaked sheets. He’s not sure what he’ll find. He’s not sure how Keith will react (he sits down and reaches under the pillow to remove the luxite blade, not stupid enough to take that risk -- he’s had _some_ insight into Keith’s mind, after all).

    Then curls his hand over Keith’s and is helpless against the wildfire of his dreams. It’s as incomprehensible as he expects, flashes of faces and hands and fights, of strange planets and aliens and plants, obscured under the smoky gauze of subconscious processing. But the message is clear: someone is going to hurt him, and he is smaller, and more vulnerable, and he is alone.

    His last line of defense is himself, and it always has been and it always will be and … and--

    “Oh, Keith,” Lance says, around his own ragged breathing, trying not to let the memories burn him, too. His other hand smooths over Keith’s forehead, brushing his bangs away from his face, and he’s only trying to override the fear with reassurance and happiness, but Keith’s eyes snap open, vivid yellow and wild.

    He tenses (tries to roll away from Lance’s touch), then catches himself. “Lance?” he says, high-pitched and pleading. “Lance, I c-can’t--” ‘ _Can’t feel can’t see can’t hear can’t_ smell _what the fuck can’t move am I moving Lance I can’t_ feel _Lance help_ Lance--’

    “Yes, you _can._ It’s alright. _Keith,_ look at me.”

    Somehow, that’s all it takes -- whether it’s the eye contact or Lance’s thumb rubbing circles on his cheek, Keith blinks a few times and his eyes are back to normal, the lavender tinge fading from his skin.

    “I died,” he says, bluntly, after a few long seconds.

    Lance nods. “But you’re okay. You’re here.”

    Keith hums at that, eyes boring into Lance’s, and Lance can’t help but smile.

    “I’m glad,” he says. His hand is still resting against Keith’s cheek.

 

    Keith doesn’t mean to. He’s been so careful to keep it in a tight grip, never letting it slip through the bond, but something about the way Lance is looking at him makes him _hope._ Makes him yearn for more, as if he could ever deserve it, and it’s that very thought that breaks through and makes Lance’s eyes widen.

    It isn’t much, but it’s an idea of what could be, and that’s enough to capture Lance’s curiosity.

    “Keith. I…” He bites his lip, shifts his hand away to rest on Keith’s forearm instead, and Keith braces himself because he knows this scenario like he knows loneliness and violence and loathing. He doesn’t bother to keep that knowledge out of their shared thoughts. Lance would reject him, romantically or otherwise, anyway.

    Hell, they’re barely even friends -- Keith is just a fool for letting himself get attached to someone who was sort of nice to him once in a while.

    The grip on his arm tightens. “I want to talk.”

    “I’m not naive, Lance,” he mutters, already drawing out of Lance’s touch, always so freely given. For how much longer?

    Lance’s gaze hardens. “I _don’t_ want to talk,” he says decisively, and before Keith can question it, he’s hit by a torrent of emotions like someone’s pulled a filter out of their bond.

     _Curiosity_

_Shock_

_Affection_

_Shame_

_Hope_

_Love_

_Fear_

_Loss_

_Agony._ Heart-rending. Keith feels like he’s been gutted, but it doesn’t stop long enough for him to recover. _Love._

_Loyalty_

    _Desire. Love. Happiness. Love love love_ love.

    He actually has to reach out and steady himself against Lance’s shoulder. Keith has _never_ been loved that way before. Fierce and protective; soft and longing.

    It's not quite a fully-formed thought -- more of a half-idea, half-image -- when Lance assures him that he'll take whatever Keith is willing to give, as long as he's happy.

    And it seems too perfect for him to be receiving all of this from the one person he thinks he could ever truly feel the same way about, if only he weren't so terrified of love in the first place.

    Lance catches that, too. _Understanding. Loyalty._

    Keith hands shake as he let's go, stops holding back everything he's tried to hide the last few months. Lays it all bare for Lance to see.

    How he feels when Lance holds his hand, like his heart is full to bursting and he could smile forever. The desire to always be in his presence. The peace of being together. The way he's wanted his companionship for longer than they've been able to reach into each other's mind-spaces.

    The frenzied panic of Lance bleeding in his arms, and the gentle reassurance of a hand brushing over his cheek, promising that all will be well.

    A wanting ache that never really goes away, no matter how much he insists it's stupid; it’s unrealistic. No one is ever going to see him that way.

    It’s halfway to the kind of unshakable love that Lance is keeping him afloat with, but it’s just as ardent and hopeful nonetheless.

    Lance’s jaw drops, eyes huge, and the blue, blue, _blue_ nearly overwhelms him. “Really?” Lance gasps. The fingers around his arm tighten with the pulse of excitement. “I’ve been -- I’ve had this dumb crush on you for so long and this whole time we could’ve… oh my god.”

    And Keith can’t help the slightly hysterical laugh that drags out of him. “I had no idea. I really thought, y’know, there’s _no way_ you could ever--” Oh, but he shouldn’t finish that sentence, because Lance will reprimand him for being putting himself down like that. He doesn’t like when Keith does that.

    Keith doesn’t like when Lance does it, either.

    “Are you kidding?” Lance says, throwing his hands into the air before dragging them over his eyes. He sighs behind his hands. _“I_ thought there was no way someone as, as-- as _great_ as you could ever like someone like _me!”_

    “Oh,” says Keith, reaching after Lance to maintain contact. It’s a habit, now. He needs their bond to feel sane at this point. His hand ends up on Lance’s knee. “We’re … stupid.”

     _‘But_ you’re _the one who’s great.’_

Lance shakes his head and uncovers his face. “This is … god, why did we have to both be self-deprecating assholes? I think you’re _incredible,_ Keith. I don’t care if you don’t get that, because I know I’m right.”

    “I… that’s…” Keith’s ears burn. “This is unfair. You’re really good with words. I mean, you already know how I feel. I just-- you just make me _happy._ You’re…” _‘My favourite.’_

    “Aww.” Teary-eyed, Lance fans himself with his hand. “You’re _my_ favourite, too.”

    Keith gets a little extra with that; a flash of _‘and I really want to kiss you,’_ and since he isn’t stupid enough to waste a good opportunity he leans in and presses his lips briefly to Lance’s, shocked by his own boldness.

    The _‘I can't believe you'd choose me, of all people’_ and the _‘I'm not even sure I deserve this’_ \-- the jumbled heap of uncertainties in-between -- are mutual.

    Thankfully, they don't need words to work through their fears together.

    Lance kisses him again.

 

* * *

 

     _‘I think Keith’s the future.’_

    Keith lifts his head off the pillow, struggling to open his eyes. “Whaz’d you say?” he mumbles, searching the darkness of their room for Lance. He stretches out a hand and finds the flat expanse of Lance’s back.

    The trickle of the dream into his system is enough to tell him Lance is still sound asleep. It’s warm, enveloping him in the kind of comfortable love he’s grown accustomed to after several months of this. Even, sometimes, when they’re apart. They still don’t have answers.

    Keith doesn’t think they need any. Things are fine how they are.

    He shifts closer; rests his forehead against the space between Lance’s shoulder blades, and falls into the dream with him.


End file.
